Remade

by Alex Scarrow

  ‘The guy seems like a total sleaze-bag.’

  ‘Tell me about it. He’s had a crack at pretty much every female in here . . . except Mrs Lin. Even me a couple of times. You know what his charming chat-up line was?’ She didn’t wait for Leon to shake his head. ‘My job is to be making as many babies as possible now.’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘Thank God he’s not the one running things here.’

  CHAPTER 38

  Grace really didn’t dream very often. Hardly ever, in fact. Leon once said it was because she had absolutely zero imagination with which her unconscious mind could fool around. In return, she’d said she’d rather have zero imagination than zero personality.

  Shots fired . . . she won.

  But she’d definitely just had one. A horrible dream. She turned over in her bed and looked at Leon. Grey light was seeping into their chalet, but it wasn’t yet dawn and he was fast asleep and snoring gently.

  ‘Leo . . .’

  She tossed a cushion across the gap between their beds.

  ‘Jeez! What the . . . ?’ He jerked awake in his bed and turned to look at her, bleary-eyed. ‘God, Grace . . . what did you go and do that for? I was sleeping!’

  ‘I just had a nightmare.’

  She saw him roll his eyes.

  ‘Well, just . . . For God’s sake, just try and forget about it and . . .’ He stopped mid-sentence when he realized she was crying. ‘About Mum?’

  She nodded.

  He sighed. ‘Do you need, like, I dunno . . . a hug or something?’

  She nodded quickly, didn’t wait for a further response from him. She tossed the sheet back, hopped across the space between their beds and curled up beside him, nudging him backwards to make herself some space.

  Leon put an arm round her narrow shoulders. He could feel them shaking. ‘Whatever it was . . . it was just a bad dream, OK?’

  ‘Mom came here . . .’ she whispered. ‘She came here to this place. She came to the front entrance . . .’

  ‘Just forget about it. Just a dream, sis,’ he mumbled sleepily.

  ‘Leo, oh God . . . She was being chased by those crabs. I couldn’t open the door to let her in.’

  He squeezed her shoulder. ‘OK, maybe that does sound like a pretty shitty nightmare.’

  ‘She kept saying, “They’re inside me . . . They’re inside me,” and I couldn’t open the door . . .’

  ‘Shhh . . .’

  Grace went quiet, but he could feel her sobbing, trying to be as subtle as possible about it, but her juddering shoulders gave her away.

  ‘Shhh . . . it’s OK. It’s OK.’

  Jeez . . . what do I say? ’Cause it isn’t OK. It isn’t even close to OK.

  ‘She’s gone, Grace. She saved us. She died knowing we were all right, we were safe. That kind of thing means everything to parents, right? The kids are everything that matters to them.’

  Grace turned over to face him, a tress of her dark hair stuck to a damp cheek. ‘What if she didn’t die? Maybe she got out? What if she’s looking for us right now?’

  Unlikely. Very unlikely. She died. He knew that. And hope, the kind with which Grace seemed to be wrestling, was like feeding the grief troll, feeding the pain.

  ‘Maybe it’s, like, a premonition or something, Leo?’ Her wide eyes challenged him to say different.

  Leon shook his head. ‘Listen, sis . . . dreams aren’t premonitions. They’re not warnings or omens, they’re just . . . I dunno, the brain firing randomly. Like you know sometimes when a slow clunky laptop boots up? Sometimes you get a flash on the screen of the last game you played or the last website you visited? Grace, a dream is just your brain sort of trying to make a story from the random stuff your sleeping mind throws around.’

  She seemed to wilt slightly at his explanation.

  ‘You don’t want to do this, sis . . . hope for something like that. ’Cause it won’t happen. She’s gone.’

  She turned over, presenting her back to him again. ‘I miss her so much.’

  ‘Me too.’

  The pillow rustled as she nodded her head. ‘You won’t ever leave me, will you?’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot. I’d be lost without your funky fashion tips.’

  He felt her giggle at that, Leo.

  ‘And your advice on my non-existent love life.’

  ‘You’re totally rubbish at that.’

  So true. He’d never had a girlfriend. On the other hand, Grace traded boyfriends like Yu-Gi-Oh! cards. He suspected her definition of ‘boyfriend’ was something of a grey area. Holding hands, once, in a crowded playground, probably counted as that.

  ‘Although –’ she turned to look at him, smiling now – ‘my may-dar says Freya may just like you.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I think.’

  She was silent for a while, long enough for Leon to be convinced she was done talking and might let him actually go back to sleep, when she turned to look at him once more. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘She has MS.’

  ‘What’s MS?’

  ‘Remember that older kid, Clay Baumgardner, in the apartment down from ours?’

  ‘Uh-huh. The ginger guy?’

  ‘Yup, well . . . pretty much the same thing he had. I think.’

  She was quiet again for a while. Leon guessed she was trying to remember what he’d looked like, how he’d started walking with a walking stick, then later moved to a wheelchair. How quickly his condition had deteriorated.

  ‘That so sucks,’ she said sleepily. A minute later, she was breathing deep and regular, fast asleep and hogging most of his single bed.

  CHAPTER 39

  Freya liked it out here on the spa’s roof terrace. It extended above the ground-floor gym, a two-storey protrusion out from the side of the large rectangular glass box of the tropicarium. The virus’s ‘mode’ had changed months ago from being clouds of particles, to a liquid with weblike ‘feeler’ tendrils, to small experimental crustaceans that seemed unable to do anything more adventurous than scuttle across the ground. And since there’d also been no signs of those clouds of particles for months, Ron had declared this open space safe.

  The terrace was covered with an almost convincing carpet of artificial grass, surrounded by a safety rail from which flower baskets hung. It had a clear view across the woodlands. Over the tops of the shorter trees, she could see the glint of the park’s small artificial lake, the two clay tennis courts, now dusted with the dead leaves that had fallen from the overhanging maple trees.

  Nature, well at least the flora part of it, still had its busy schedule to keep to. Winter was finally here, leaves had fallen in order to make a squishy nuisance of themselves and the air had a pleasing chill to it.

  She pegged her laundry on the line strung out across the roof garden. Although this park had electricity, Ron was keen to preserve it for more important things than washing and tumble drying. The turbine and the solar panels provided enough for everything else but the gym below her, full of energy-draining treadmills, and the laundry room in the basement remained locked and unused.

  ‘Laundering clothes and maintaining personal hygiene,’ Ron had reminded everyone recently at the daily breakfast briefing, ‘is still very important and is everyone’s personal responsibility.’

  Freya didn’t mind this particular chore. It was a chance to be outside, to get some alone time, some fresh air, the sun on her face . . . and to be perfectly safe while doing that. The Snark didn’t seem to be able to make things that could climb or fly . . . yet.

  The Snark? She shook her head at herself, at the name she used for the plague.

  She realized, in her mind, the virus had evolved into a single entity. A thing . . . with a name. Like a person. It reminded her of a beat-cancer campaign from a couple of years ago. How cleverly the advertising company responsible for those TV ads had personalized the disease, made a million unlinked clusters of tumorous cells into one big punch-in-the-face-able bad guy. The cancer
character had had a name: Vincent, a chain-smoking douche-bag with slicked-back hair, greyish skin and, oddly, an Essex accent.

  And now the virus had a name: Snark. And he was a douche-bag too.

  ‘Screw. You. Mr Snark,’ she muttered as she reached into the basket for her bed sheet.

  ‘Potty mouth!’

  Freya spun round, staggering slightly, reaching for the back of one of the deck chairs to steady her balance.

  ‘Oh . . . it’s you.’

  Dave sat down casually on a chair nearby. ‘Offer still stands, by the way.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Claire turn you down again?’

  ‘No,’ he replied defensively.

  ‘Have you tried any of the cleaner girls yet?’ There were three of them, the cleaners. They spoke about five words of English between them. She wasn’t sure if they were Polish, Romanian, Hungarian, Czech. ‘You never know, with the language barrier an’ all, they might not have figured out you’re a complete idiot yet.’

  ‘You’re a sarcastic cow, aren’t you?’

  ‘Hey, it’s my superpower.’ She shrugged. ‘I use it only for good, though.’

  Dave’s hard face creased with an insincere smile. ‘Hey, do you want a hand?’

  She didn’t. She wanted him to go. But before she could answer him he clapped his hands slowly.

  ‘Oh, my, “give me a hand”, that’s so-o-o hilarious! Did you write that joke all by yourself?’

  The sarcasm whistled over the top of his head. ‘No. It’s an oldie.’ He got up from the chair. ‘Here, I’m gonna help you with that sheet anyway.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m fine . . . honestly.’

  He ignored that and grabbed two corners off her. ‘You need to double it over or you’ll take up too much space on the line.’ She had been going to do that. The line was already well populated with other people’s bed linen and clothes. He advanced towards her, arms spread, one corner of the sheet in each hand. Very close. Far too close. She took the corners from him quickly. ‘There . . .’ He smiled.

  His hands were free . . . and hers weren’t. He placed one hand on her hip, the other on her right breast. ‘Come on, Frey—’

  She dropped the sheet and tried to push him back. ‘No!’

  His arm slid from her hip, round the back of her waist: a hold on her, a very firm one. ‘Come on . . . just a bit of fun.’

  ‘I said NO . . . now piss off and let me go!’

  He scrunched his hand on her chest. Painfully. ‘Ow! You’re hurting me!’

  ‘Come on, Freya. Just a—’

  She jabbed a finger, hard and straight, into his right ear. He recoiled, let her go and cupped a hand to the side of his head. ‘Ow! That hurt!’

  ‘So did that,’ she said, rubbing her chest. ‘You really are a complete shit, Dave.’

  He took his hand away and stared at a small smear of blood. ‘Bitch . . .’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t be such a baby. I poked you, that’s all—’

  He stepped forward, grabbed her wrists and pushed her back so that she lost balance and collapsed on to the deck chair. He swung a leg over and sat on her. Pulled her arms down to her sides and planted a knee on each wrist.

  ‘You really don’t get it, do you?’

  She bucked and wriggled, but his weight was too much. His hard knees ground into her wrists painfully. ‘Get off me!’

  ‘It’s all new rules now, Freya. No more of that political-correctness rubbish. It’s survive in the jungle time. Just us . . . you better get used to the idea.’

  ‘Get OFF ME!’

  ‘Now, then . . .’ He started to tug her tucked-in shirt out of the waistband of her jeans and lift it up.

  ‘HEY!’

  Dave looked up and saw Grace standing in the doorway carrying a plastic laundry basket. ‘What are you doing to Freya?’

  He quickly pulled her top back down. ‘Just messing.’ He got off her, stood up and offered Freya a hand. ‘Just play-wrestling.’

  Freya kicked at his hand. ‘Get away from me, you pig!’

  Dave shrugged. He muttered quietly to her, ‘Ron won’t be running things forever.’

  The words chilled her. Not just an observation . . . it was a barely concealed threat.

  He strode across the terrace to the door, looked at Grace and winked. ‘You too . . . you’re not too young, princess,’ he muttered under his breath.

  ‘I’m going to tell Mr Carnegie what I just saw,’ said Grace.

  He pushed past her and headed down the stairwell. She watched him go then hurried over to Freya.

  ‘You OK?’

  Freya nodded, mutely, then began to sob. Grace sat down beside her, put her arms round her shoulders and held her tightly. ‘There, there . . .’ she cooed, rubbing her back.

  She may only have been twelve, but she knew when another girl needed help.

  ‘Well? Dave? What have you got to say about this?’

  Dave looked at everyone assembled in the cafeteria. All eyes were on him, waiting expectantly for his explanation.

  ‘I knew something like this would happen.’ Dave shook his head angrily. ‘No,’ he sighed, ‘I didn’t bloody well attack her.’

  ‘I said,’ Freya cut in, ‘you assaulted me.’

  ‘Ron –’ he turned to his boss – ‘seriously? Are we doing this?’

  ‘I want to hear what you’ve got to say.’

  Dave rolled his eyes and sighed again. ‘She was up on the terrace putting out her washing. She backed up against one of the deck loungers, and tripped over the foot-rest end.’ He looked at Freya. ‘You all know what she’s like – she’s clumsy. I went over to give her a hand up . . . and she got really shitty with me.’ He looked at his audience. ‘You know what she can be like . . . really arsey. She told me to “eff off”. Said I was looking for any excuse to grope her. And that’s when little Miss Princess turned up out of the blue and decided to get the wrong end of the stick.’

  ‘Grace said you lifted Freya’s shirt up.’

  ‘I was pulling it down, because yes . . . it was up. She was struggling on that deck chair like a flipped-over turtle. I was just trying to—’

  Iain and Phil laughed.

  ‘All right, you two,’ snapped Ron. ‘Keep it down.’

  ‘I was a complete muppet, trying to be helpful to her.’ He tutted. ‘That won’t happen again, I’m telling you.’

  ‘You really are a lying weasel shitbag,’ said Freya. ‘Everyone knows what you’re like! Ever since I turned up here, I’ve seen what you’re like – hitting on anything with a pulse.’

  ‘Quiet now, Freya,’ said Ron. ‘You’ve had your say. It’s Dave’s turn.’

  ‘You want to know what else he said?’ She didn’t wait on Ron for a reply. ‘He said Grace wasn’t too young for the same treatment either.’ Freya shook her head and stared at him. ‘Yeah, I heard that. You really make me want to vomit.’

  ‘Is that true?’ asked Ron.

  Dave’s face creased up with incredulity. ‘Jesus! She’s a kid! Of course I didn’t bloody say that!’

  ‘OhmyGod, you lying shit! You lying piece of—’

  ‘All right . . . all right!’ Ron raised his hands to hush them both.

  Dave shook his head. ‘You really are a piece of work, aren’t you? Throwing an accusation like that at me—’

  ‘QUIET! The pair of you!’ Ron snapped.

  They both clapped their mouths shut. No one had heard Ron’s voice sound like that before.

  It was quiet. Grace broke the silence, though. ‘He’s the one who’s lying, Mr Carnegie.’

  Leon grabbed her hand to shush her.

  ‘Look . . .’ Ron absently scratched at the back of his neck and grimaced. ‘Look, Dave . . . I really can’t have someone around, on my team, who I can’t trust with our guests. There’s a disciplinary process that I have to—’

  ‘You can’t kick him out, sir!’ shouted Iain. ‘Not just on what she said! You know what she can be like!’ He looked a
t Big Phil to back him up, but he merely offered a non-committal shrug.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Freya shrugged. ‘Like, you know, because that’s what I do for a hobby . . . make false accusations of assault.’

  Dave was emboldened by the support. ‘Ron, look, this is crazy. We’ve all got to work together, you know? Stick together. I . . .’ He puffed out a breath. ‘Look, we’re probably it. All that’s left. Just us. Alone. Here.’

  ‘All the same, Dave, there are rules of conduct and—’

  ‘Ron! This isn’t a holiday spa any more! We aren’t Emerald Parks employees any more!’ He pointed at Freya, nodded at those few in the audience not wearing green tops. ‘And they’re not our bloody guests!’ He turned back to Ron. ‘We can’t piss around any more and pretend it’s all going to get back to normal! The game is survival, mate . . . Do you understand?’ He laughed. ‘Jesus, look at us. We’re having a poxy disciplinary hearing!’

  Leon watched Ron still vigorously scratching the back of his neck. Still wincing and sucking air in between his teeth.

  He’s going to back down. He could feel Grace trembling with rage.

  ‘Now . . . just . . . Dave . . . Just calm down. Please. No one’s getting kicked out. No one’s getting fired—’

  ‘Fired?’ Dave laughed. ‘From what? From our jobs?’

  Leon noticed some heads nodding in the canteen and realized that the only reason Mr Carnegie was still in charge here was that no one had figured out yet that someone else could be. That, or maybe it was the rumour that Mr Carnegie kept a gun locked up in the top drawer of his desk. Spanners told Leon that somebody had found one on one of their shopping trips and Mr Carnegie had put it out of the way for safekeeping.

  ‘Look, I think for the sake of peace and order here the best thing is for you two to give each other a wide berth.’ He gave Dave, then Freya, a firm, headmaster’s stare. ‘Is that perfectly clear?’

  Dave shrugged. ‘Suits me, Ron.’

  ‘Freya?’

  She laughed dryly. ‘Sure. Why not? I mean . . . how many females’ testimonies equal a male testimony? More than two, apparently.’

  ‘Now, Freya . . . I’ve had enough of this bickering! Dave, you’re on a warning from me! Do you understand?’